Someone Like Me
by Fizzylizard
Summary: Remus Lupin has a conversation with a certain young werewolf in St Mungo's


Disclaimer: The anonymous werewolf in St. Mungo's, the assorted Weasleys and Remus J. Lupin all belong exclusively to JK Rowling. St. Mungo's belongs to JK Rowling – by now, she could probably buy about half of Greater London, but that's beside the point.

Someone Like Me

_By Fizzy the Lizard_

Simon lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. It wasn't a particularly interesting ceiling, being a vaguely unsettling shade of off-white, perfectly flat – there wasn't even a rough patch in the paintwork – and crossed over by tiny little cracks that fanned out from the corner like miniature spider webs. Perhaps it was meant to be soothing, something therapeutic for the patients to look at, but to be honest it was extremely boring. But it was better than watching that stupid, stupid man with his stupid smile, pretending to give a wet slap about what had happened. As if he did – him with his masses of children and friends, all swarming in to see him with presents and news. He had nothing to worry about.

His life wasn't over.

_Very nice man _he'd said, _finds the…er…condition quite easy to manage. _He'd probably pulled that straight out of his backside, probably wouldn't know a werewolf from a bar of soap, though Simon had felt slightly better when he had faltered on the word 'condition.' Even the Healers did that. In a twisted way, it was almost fun to be rude to them and watch them run away – maybe they thought he was going to leap out of bed with his teeth bared and pass it on to them like a cold. He probably should; they'd understand much better then. They wouldn't bother being polite and understanding, they wouldn't blather on about his 'almost normal life'. He wasn't going to have a normal life, and those stupid Healers knew it. You actually had to be normal to do that, and normal had walked out of his life two weeks ago.

Why wouldn't those kids shut up? They were chattering like a little pile of two-bob watches, two-bob watches with red hair, who actually liked the silly fool. There he went again, telling his kids what shouldn't have been said – 'bitten by a werewolf, poor chap'. _That's my business, not yours! Shut up, shut up, for Chrissakes shut up!_

All the same, the company…it would have been nice, maybe just for five minutes, to have somebody come in to see him. He hated to admit it, but…it would have helped. Nobody had bothered, for two whole weeks he hadn't seen a single familiar face – it wouldn't have surprised him if they didn't even know. People didn't want to find out that sort of thing, not when it was about five times easier and a hundred times less embarrassing to walk away. People either pretended to care, patronised him, or pulled out the silver teaspoon they conveniently had tucked in their back pocket. They thought a teaspoon – _a teaspoon, for crying out loud! _– would save them. Honestly, it was like trying to cut your throat with a butter knife! He should write it down – 'Simon Weber's Theory of Lycanthropy' would look impressive on paper…and maybe he could use that red-haired woman as a case study – 'Is he safe in a public ward? Shouldn't he be in a private room?' She'd said that the first time, and even now seemed nervous – might explain why she had started shouting.

He wondered if she knew he could hear her, and then he wondered if she cared. It didn't matter, just as that daft man trying to defend himself meant slightly less than nothing, but it was something to fill in the time – the Healers had removed his watch. Something to do with the silver knob at the top. It was stupid really – they'd taken his watch away so it wouldn't hurt him, but he already knew that, as soon as he could walk properly, he'd have to go to the Werewolf Registry. They'd give him the tags – silver tags, mind you – that he had to wear, burns or not, for the rest of his life. If he was ever caught with them off, they could arrest him. That minor detail had been made very clear.

_I'm a Danger to Society_. The implications of this demanded the capital letters. _A Dark Creature, and everyone knows it – even that bloke probably knows by now. _He was watching the man who had moved away from the noise around the bed. _Can't be very smart – he's coming this way. _He immediately threw himself around to face the other way, and almost bit clean through his lip at the pain in his knee. The last thing he needed was for some new do-gooder to decide he understood when he obviously didn't know the first thing about it.

"Good afternoon."

It was a very quiet voice, with a slight accent that was just about impossible to place, and – surprisingly – it sounded very polite. Up until now, the only sort of voices he'd heard had been patronising, pretending to be patronising (which was easily as galling) or exasperated. After such a limited range, it was actually pleasant to be spoken to like that. Even so, he still didn't turn around, but sat there with his teeth gritted rubbing at the leg. It ached like it had done when that animal had torn it wide open, so he was a bit preoccupied. The only concession he made was to grunt, "Piss off."

"You know, if you turned around, you'd probably find it much easier to insult me." He actually sounded amused, in a quiet sort of way. What was wrong with him?

"Didn't you hear what I said?" He felt like snarling, but didn't want to make the effort for someone like this. It wasn't worth it for an idiot. Instead, he settled for sounding aggressive, but was uncomfortably aware that he was flat on his back. It becomes difficult to intimidate someone when they are standing and you are not.

"Let's assume I did." He was still quite pleasant, but there was steel underneath. "I'm ignoring it."

"Clear out!" He'd wanted company, he still did want company, but not if it came from some thick bastard like this. "Go bother your friend, and leave me alone."

"Do you think I have a death wish?"

"You do if you stay here." Simon laughed bitterly. It wasn't funny, but it made him feel more in control. "Didn't he tell you what's wrong with me – or are you someone else who knows that 'very nice man'?"

"Yes actually, I think I might."

It was impossible to be properly scathing when he couldn't even see who he was insulting. For the first time, angry with himself for doing it, Simon rolled back over again and got a proper look at the visitor he did not want.

He had brown hair, not long, but not especially short, not exactly straight, and, well…he looked _harmless._ This wasn't right – he were supposed to be easy to despise, just like everyone else had been, but this one was vaguely likeable. He was tall, and a little pale, and extremely shabby. In fact, if you looked carefully at the buttons on his shirt, they were very similar but did not match. Someone had sewn them back on about five times, and the top one, where the tie would have sat if he had worn one, looked ready to fall off again. He glanced down, following Simon's eyes. "I need to fix that one."

To Simon's astonishment, he pulled it off and slipped it into his pocket before glancing quickly at the records hanging off the end of the bed. "You're not another one of those bloody Healers, are you?" Stupid, really – he wasn't wearing a Healer's uniform, or even anything bearing the slightest resemblance to one.

"No," His eyes were brown – thoroughly ordinary, but they freaked Simon out. He wasn't sure why. They just did. "My Potions mark wouldn't have got me a place here, except in a hospital bed. I was actually finding out your name."

"So…if you're not a Healer, and you're ignoring the man you came to visit…who are you?"

"It doesn't mean much, but Remus Lupin." He smiled, and there was something sad in it.

Simon very nearly laughed. "You made that up – nobody's stupid enough to say that in front of a werewolf."

"Well, I can't change it. Besides, when I was told the story I used to think it was funny, giving a name like that to someone like me."

"Someone like…what?"

_I should call him Remus, _thought Simon, _but I can't. Don't think he'd let me. Not when he's so serious…I'll laugh in his face if I do that…_

It wasn't a face to laugh at. For the first time, Simon realised that even though he couldn't possibly be any older than forty, and was more likely younger than that, he was going grey. He looked at him, straight, and Simon got the horrible feeling that he was looking into the muzzle again…and this time he was crippled…this time, he couldn't run.

"I ran too."

_No way. No way. This bloke – he's normal. He's bloody _normal_! He isn't like me. He can't be like me…can he?_

"Yes," he said softly, now speaking to the floor. "I am."

As hard as he tried, Simon couldn't think of a single thing to say. The ideas and stray words that formed in his head sounded stupid, even to him – and this from a man who was not fond of editing. Eventually he settled on, "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Remus looked at his watch. "I'd best be going – I have work to do, and Healer Smethwyck will want to speak to you again." A sympathetic smile turned his mouth up at one end. "Try not to bite his head off next time."

He turned and left without another word, and Simon's eyes reverted to the ceiling. It was still exactly as it had been before the day had changed (though he hadn't exactly been expecting a dramatic transformation), but somewhere in the back of his mind the tiny voice that had been fighting and swearing and damning the world quietly sat down in astonishment.


End file.
